


The Loneliest Man

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	The Loneliest Man

When Mycroft catches Sherlock and John snogging on the sofa, he has to chide himself for being surprised at all.

When Sherlock throws him an annoyed look, coupled with a “do you mind?” something freezes inside his stomach and he can’t deduce why.

He’s back in his study, pouring himself a drink, when it hits him with such force that he has to sit down, because he finds that he is illogically, no, absurdly, jealous.  
Lovers, he could have predicted, all snide remarks aside, but friends? This was unforeseen, and, indeed, as Mycroft catalogues and reviews each and every look of not just affection but frank admiration that Sherlock has bestowed on John, ending with the last one, the one on the sofa of 221B Baker Street; something sharp coils and knots itself inside him.

It doesn’t matter that Sherlock’s adoration of another human being is now entirely different from when he was an idolizing younger brother. It still feels like a stab in the chest.

He wants to slam his fist into something, but he sits instead, heavily, and runs a hand over his face. Another tooth is killing him, all of a sudden, and he scowls, pressing a cold hand to his face.

He inhales sharply as the pain radiates into his chest. How appropriate, he thinks, while hands that are oddly still and calm press the numbers into his phone.

**

Mycroft does not go out with a bang, or a whimper, but instead wakes inside a private hospital room. It must have been a severe one, he thinks when he opens his eyes to discover Sherlock in a position Mycroft hasn’t seen him in in years, stretched out beside him, one arm slung protectively over him. Sherlock is not eight years old anymore, but that expression on his face, the one of utter irritation at the stupidity of the world, and not just the people in it, is familiar. For the first time in his life, instead of making Mycroft knit his eyebrows in worry, it melts the ice inside of him a bit.


End file.
